


Pirates Never Die (They Just Change a Little)

by TheRaven



Series: POTC Reincarnation AU [1]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Gen, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-15 06:51:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2219709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRaven/pseuds/TheRaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In modern times, the POTC crew are reincarnated and, save for Jack (renamed James), remember very little of their past lives. That changes when Jack, fueled by his oftentimes violent memories and a desire to find those who would understand them, goes on a quest to reunite with his old friends--crew--whatever they are to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jack

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea how long this is going to be. I'm guessing at least six chapters, one for each character, but this AU is expanding faster than I can keep up with, so we might be in for a monster, here. I hope y'all enjoy reading this as much as I have writing it.

James has known since he was a small child that something is different about him. For one thing, his way of speaking is considerably different to that of his peers. And for another, he's woken up screaming nearly every night since he was two years old, head full of violent memories he can't possibly have experienced.

His mother, Zuri, consults her mother and, after much debate, decides that James needs more religion in his life. The town where they live in Alabama is already considerably religious, but Zuri had neglected church service and community functions for a few years after the birth of her son. So when he is four years old, she enrolls him in Sunday School and attends church with him every weekend.

And to his credit, James tries very hard to let Jesus take away the nightmares. He prays every night for relief from the smell of gunpowder and roar of cannon fire and the clash of swords, but God doesn't answer his prayers. He lies anyway and tells his mother that the dreams have gotten better, and Zuri spends the next eight years thinking that her attempts to help him have succeeded.

But by the time he is twelve, James has had enough. God hasn't listened to him, no matter how hard he cries or what he promises to do in return. It's gotten to the point where he rarely sleeps, and he dozes off in class regularly, only to snap awake when he starts to feel the gentle rocking of the sea. So he decides one day, late in November, that there must not be a God, or that if there is one, that He certainly doesn't care about the suffering of His people, and he becomes an atheist.

He starts refusing to go to Sunday School, then refuses to step foot in his family's church at all. When Zuri tries to force him with threats of punishment, he packs a bag with some clothes and food and runs away from home, the first of many times he does so. He is picked up by the police two days later, two towns away and trying to hitch a ride out of Alabama.

James begins to get into fights after school, and he takes his first swig from a bottle of whiskey when he is thirteen years old. This leads to more fights, which leads to a blossoming criminal record, which leads to time spent in juvenile detention facilities. James becomes very adept at pickpocketing, which comes in handy for getting money for alcohol, and he drops out of school at sixteen to pursue a life of petty crime.

And all the while, the memories persist. And, shortly after his eighteenth birthday, he's looking through a book on pirates at the library—despite everything, he still likes to read—and spots a name, mentioned only in passing, that makes his heart jump in his chest. It's Captain Jack Sparrow, and it sounds more familiar and utterly right than anything he's ever known. James closes the book and runs from the library, mind buzzing with excitement.

Everything fits now. He knows why he's been tormented by nightmares his entire life, why he feels so strange in this shitty little town, why he can't stay out of trouble no matter how hard he tries. It all makes sense. And now that he knows his own name, others attach themselves to the other figures he's seen in dreams all his life: Will, Elizabeth, Barbossa. Calypso. And dozens more, each one slotting perfectly into place as he curls up on his bed, eyes closed, and finally allows himself to understand what is going on.

He emerges from his room two hours later as a completely different person. James—Jack—feels at peace now, perfectly certain of who he is and why he's spent his entire life confused and angry and afraid. With a swagger and a confidence that now feels as natural as breathing, he resumes his life of crime knowing that it isn't just teenaged rebellion leading him to cause trouble; it's just in his nature.

Soon after his awakening, James discovers something he loves almost as much as his long-gone ship: motorcycles. For once in his life, he works legitimate jobs in order to save money to buy one, because he can't bring himself to buy one with stolen cash. Why, he doesn't know, but he works harder than he ever has in his life, and after much searching, he finds a Yamaha V-Max that he can reasonably afford. He names it The Black Pearl after his beloved ship, and shortly after he acquires it, he gets a license to ride it. He wouldn't have bothered with the license, but every police department in Alabama knows him by now, and he doesn't want them to take his bike away from him.

James says goodbye to his mother when he turns twenty years old and, armed with a few changes of clothes and all the money he has in the world, he takes off on his motorcycle. He spends the next twelve years crisscrossing the continental United States, getting into trouble and occasionally doing jail time for minor offenses.

It's during this time that he discovers another thing about himself: namely, that he isn't as male as he always assumed he was. The realization has little impact on him; James has always felt strange and out of place, after all, and after finding out that he had lived a past life as a pirate, the knowledge that his gender is a little complicated is no great surprise to him. He doesn't bother to change his pronouns to suit how he feels at any given moment because he can't be bothered, and he never feels the need to tell anyone about it, mostly because he doesn't stay in one place long enough to warrant it.

Possibly because of his ever-changing gender, or perhaps just because he's never been one to deny himself anything in either of his lives, James enjoys many short relationships and numerous one-night-stands with persons of multiple genders. It's not as though he actively seeks them out, but they tend to just happen on a regular basis. James is aware that he's attractive, both in terms of appearance and in terms of personality, and he enjoys sex. Things are just a little complicated, because in addition to the violent memories, James possesses what he privately calls “residual emotions” regarding certain persons in his past life, and while he's happy to fall into the beds of strangers, those emotions have the nasty habit of lingering.

The emotions only intensify when, in his thirty-first year, James begins to have different dreams. He has flashes of familiar faces, yes, but they are in a different context. He sees a young woman, bored and nursing a glass of soda in a fancy night club; a young man with a welder's mask, slaving away at an abstract metal sculpture; a middle-aged man walking a small dog and feeding birds at a park; a young man studying medicine while rock music plays from tinny laptop speakers; a woman in a swamp, talking to fish in an aquarium as though they can understand her. Little by little, he gets clues as to where they are, and little by little, he understands that it is fate for him to reunite with them.

So when he's thirty-two, James—Jack—sets out for the Midwest on his motorcycle in search of Will Turner, the man he was closest to in his past life.


	2. Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will (renamed Alex) has an ordinary and vaguely-unsatisfying life in the Midwest that is thoroughly shaken up when a stranger pops up to return his lost wallet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. This one got away from me a little. Hopefully it's enjoyable, though. Not sure when the next chapter will be up; depends on how quickly I can get it written. I post these pretty much as soon as I finish them, and they're all unbeta'd, so please forgive any mistakes or continuity errors in the text. At any rate, I hope y'all enjoy, and I'll try to post the next chapter soon.

Alexander, called Alex by nearly everyone, is bored. He shouldn't be, of course; he has a full-time job doing something he loves, and he has time on the side to devote to art. He doesn't have a girlfriend, but his life is fulfilling without one, or at least, it should be. Granted, he barely scrapes together the money necessary for rent and food, but his landlord is pretty cool, so he tries not to worry about it.

Still, something feels like it's missing, and all his life, Alex has been unable to put a finger on it. It's like a pebble in his shoe, making him uncomfortable and on-edge at the strangest times, and it does nothing to soothe the boredom. So he throws himself into his work, both at his welding job and after he gets back to his apartment and can focus on the metal sculptures he sells for extra cash.

His life has been fairly uneventful. Single-parent household, not much money to go around, but he had a good childhood, all things considered, and he's transitioned fairly easily into adulthood. This current welding job is one in a succession of similar jobs at different companies, because as good a worker as he is, the places he works for have a habit of suddenly “restructuring” and laying him off. But he's never been without work for long, not since he started working at sixteen, and he considers himself lucky despite his relative poverty.

Alex gets his motorcycle license at twenty-two, compelled to do so by the Kawasaki Ninja 650R he spots in the classifieds and uses his entire savings and that month's rent money to purchase. Not that it's that expensive, but he never manages to save much money thanks to his low-paying job. He learns to ride without much incident and takes the bike to work instead of his shitty, barely-functioning car, which he sells even though he knows winter will be hell to ride in.

Unfortunately, Alex's landlord is not so cool that he accepts “I had to buy a motorcycle” as an excuse for not making rent, and he issues Alex an eviction notice. He has thirty days to find a new place to live, or he's out on the streets. This is the first time he's fucked up badly enough to be in danger of homelessness, and it scares him.

Alex is walking home from the bar, where he's had exactly one rum and Coke but doesn't want to risk being pulled over for drunk driving. He's left his bike at the apartment that will shortly become his former home, and he tries not to dwell on the thought that cheap apartments are few and far between where he is. Alex reaches for his wallet, finds nothing in his back pocket, and curses himself for losing it. Now he'll have to replace everything that was in it, and he's out forty dollars.

It's at this point that a very disheveled-looking man taps him on the shoulder and, when Alex turns around to tell him he doesn't have anything to give him, smiles at him with a mouth full of gold teeth.

“You may not have anything to give me,” he says, “but I have something for you.”

He holds out Alex's wallet, still grinning. Alex cautiously takes it back and looks inside; his money and all his cards are still there, though he's considering replacing all of the cards anyway in case this rather obviously suspect man has written down the information on them. He starts to thank the man when he throws an arm around Alex's shoulders, causing him to stop abruptly.

“Can I buy you a drink, mate?” the man asks. “Name's...James. And you're Alex, yes? Sorry; I peeked at your driver's license so I would know who to give the wallet back to.”

Alex would be angry with the overly-familiar actions of this stranger, but he's too surprised by his forwardness to do much more than gape at him and allow himself to be steered back toward the bar. He's also noted the hesitation in the stranger's voice before he gave Alex a name and assumes that he's lying, but that's neither here nor there. For now, he has to make sure he's not walking into some sort of trap. It would be so easy for the man to pickpocket him and gain his confidence by returning his wallet to him, only to lead him to some sort of accomplice and...he's not sure what they would do to him, but he also doesn't particularly want to find out.

“I should go—” he starts, but the stranger, James, removes his hand from his shoulder and settles it on his wrist instead. “This is starting to feel like a bad idea.”

“Perhaps,” James says with a quiet chuckle, “but it'll certainly be interesting, I can promise you that.”

Alex finds himself being tugged back into the bar, where the bouncer gives him an amused look. He feels a little offended by that, but he can't quite place why. He allows James to lead him to a table in the back of the establishment, where James sits with his back to the wall. James reaches up as if to take a hat off of his head and laughs to himself, which only serves to make Alex more unnerved by the whole situation. He sits down anyway and, at James' insistence, orders another rum and Coke.

“You're not planning to murder me or something, are you?” Alex asks after the waitress heads back to the bartender to put in their order.

“That, my boy, would not be interesting,” James says, leaning back against the wall and surveying him with an eerily intense stare.

“And what would be interesting, in your opinion?” Alex asks.

James just smiles and says “Let's discuss that after a drink, shall we?”

The waitress brings them their drinks—James has just ordered a double shot of cheap whiskey—and promises to check back soon in case they need anything. James gives her a charming smile and tips her handsomely, even though he doesn't look like he has much money to his name. Then, he downs half of his drink at once and cocks his head a little to the side to study Alex with that same intense expression.

“Drink up,” James encourages him. “You'll want it, I know you will.”

Alex takes a sip of his drink and shrugs.

“I'm thinking it'll be a better idea to keep my wits about me,” he tells him. “But you're welcome to have as much as you like. It's your money, after all.”

James nods and downs the rest of his drink. He doesn't flag the waitress down for more immediately, though. He just toys with his empty glass and watches Alex slowly sip at his drink. The expression on his face is at once thoughtful and uncomfortably familiar, though Alex can't quite figure out why. Alex takes a large gulp of his drink and decides that he might as well see this through, whatever it is.

“Do you make a habit of inviting strangers to drink with you?” he asks. “And I'm assuming you're not from around here. You talk...strangely.”

“Alabama,” James replies easily. “And yes, as a matter of fact, I do. It's a good way to get to know a person, don't you think?”

“Alabama...” Alex repeats, knowing that there must be more to it than that. “I suppose it's not a bad way to get to know someone. A little dangerous, though.”

“Dangerous for who?” James asks.

“Both parties, I imagine,” Alex replies. “Whoever gets drunker.”

“You need to loosen up, mate,” James says with a bark of laughter. “Much too suspicious of everything. But then, I suppose that's to be expected.”

Alex doesn't bother to ask how he expects this. More than likely, James is referring to the fact that they are strangers and in a less-than-stellar part of town in the middle of the night. Which they are, on all parts, and it's only getting later. Alex takes another sip of his drink and wonders whether he should try to get away from this stranger before things get weird.

'So, Alex,” James says, flagging down the waitress for a double shot of rum this time, “tell me about yourself. You look like a respectable man. I suppose you have a job somewhere?”

Alex glances behind him at the rest of the bar, which is maybe half full. This bar is never very busy, even on weekends, but tonight is especially quiet for a Friday. Well, Saturday. James gets his drink and tips the waitress very well once again, gulping down half of it before she's even gotten back to the bar, and Alex starts to worry that he's going to have to babysit him before too long.

“I'm a welder,” he says. “A damn good one, too. But companies around here, they like to screw you over. I don't get paid much, and I'm behind enough on my rent that I'm getting evicted soon.”

He doesn't actually plan on saying that last part, but it just comes tumbling out of his mouth. James nods sagely and finishes off his rum.

“Nothing like a healthy shot of rum,” he says good-naturedly. “And you're a master welder but you can't make rent? Do you spend your paychecks on rum and women, then?”

“No,” Alex says quickly. “Like I said, my employers like to pay me as little as possible, and, well, the only major thing I've spent money on lately is a motorcycle.”

James lights up at that.

“What kind?” he asks eagerly. “Something good and powerful, I hope?”

“A Kawasaki Ninja 650R, actually,” Alex answers him. “You like motorcycles?”

“Very much so,” James says, grinning. “That really is perfect, my boy. You and motorcycles. Of course.”

Alex can't help but feel unnerved by the way James talks. It's like he knows something Alex doesn't, and he's either waiting for the opportune moment to share, or he's deliberately keeping it from him to rouse his interest. Either way, Alex isn't sure he wants to find out what it is that James isn't telling him, because he has a feeling that it could be dangerous, though he's unable to articulate why.

“You act like you know me,” he says, against his better judgment.

James fixes him with another intense stare and flags down the waitress again, who comments that he should probably slow down if he doesn't want to have to be dragged home unconscious. James brushes off the warning and orders another double shot of rum.

“Get the boy another rum and Coke, will you?” he asks her. “He'll need it.”

Alex finishes his drink and takes the one the waitress brings over for him.

“You need to be in the right frame of mind,” James explains, “before I divulge certain information. Have to be open to it, if you know what I mean.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Alex replied, “but if you want to get me drunk, well...that's probably going to happen after I finish this drink.”

“Good man,” James says with another laugh. “Now, back to motorcycles. Have you considered taking some time after your eviction to, say, see the country a bit? Do some traveling, as it were?”

“I think everyone considers traveling at some point,” Alex replies. “I couldn't just abandon my job like that, though. I need some way to get money.”

“There's plenty of work to be had if you know where to look,” James assures him. “And take it from me: there's not much better than the feeling of freedom an extended road trip can offer.”

They talk for awhile longer, mostly about motorcycles. James is far more knowledgeable than he seems, much more so than Alex is, and Alex finds himself growing steadily more comfortable with the man's presence, despite the inherent strangeness of their encounter. He slowly finishes his drink, not wanting to be too drunk, and James orders a fourth double shot, the third one of rum he's had in two hours. James holds his liquor well, but his demeanor and mannerisms are noticeably different, looser.

“Well,” James says, a little loudly, “I'm thinking the both of us have had enough to drink that I can finally get on with telling you just why I decided to drag you here.”

“I'm eager to hear it,” Alex says, feeling warm and inclined to indulge him.

“It's a funny story, really,” James begins, toying with his empty glass. “You see, I was going to pickpocket you.”

“I'd guessed that much,” Alex replies.

And he really had. The timing had been too perfect, and really, James looks like the kind of person who would be a good pickpocket. But the question of why he returned the wallet remains, and Alex waits patiently for James to continue with his story.

“But something stopped me,” James says. “Can you think of what that might be?”

“The kindness of your heart?” Alex guesses.

“Your photograph,” James corrects him. “I saw the little picture on your driver's license, and it set the gears of my brain to turning.”

He pauses, possibly for dramatic effect, but it looks more like he's just forgotten what he wants to say next. Alex stirs the ice in his glass and gives him a small, encouraging smile.

“You looked familiar, mate,” says James in a low voice Alex has to strain to hear. “Right familiar.'

“You knew my dad, probably,” Alex says with a shrug. “Everyone who knew him says I look just like him. He left my mom and me right after I was born.”

“I knew your father,” James acknowledges, “but not how you're thinking. See, I knew you, too, but you went by a different name back then: Will Turner.”

“You're crazy,” Alex says, not feeling either surprised or even that bothered by the realization.

“Aye, but it's the truth all the same,” James says, suddenly very serious. “You were Will, and I was Jack, and we sailed the seven seas together with a motley crew of miscreants—and your bonnie lass, but we have yet to track her down.”

“You're crazy,” Alex repeats, a little more firmly, but he's still not too uneasy about it.

“You know it feels like the truth,” James insists. “Just think about it a little, and you'll see I'm not playing games with you.”

And he does think about it, and, well, it doesn't feel wrong, exactly. Alex can't say for certain whether it feels right, but in the strangest, most ill-advised way, it feels possible. Maybe it's just the alcohol making him irrational, but Alex doesn't outright dismiss the story, absurd as it is. He tries it on in his head, slipping it on like a glove, and somehow, it fits.

“Say I was to believe you,” he says carefully. “What difference would it make?”

“It would make all the difference in the world, mate,” James says. “You, like me, have felt that nagging little voice in the back of your head, the one telling you that there's more to life than what you see in front of you. You know that you don't quite fit in where you are, and you know, deep down, that there is an explanation for that.”

James grins.

“And if you believe me, well, you find your place in the universe,” he says. “You figure out why you're so out of place, why metalworking comes so easy to you, why you bought that motorbike despite knowing nothing about motorcycles. You realize that what you were looking for was the freedom you used to have, and you have the opportunity to seize that freedom once again.”

“So, what exactly are you talking about?” Alex asks. “Are we talking...what, about past lives?”

“Precisely,” James says, lightly slapping the table with his open hand. “Pirates, my boy, that's what we were. Well, that's what I was. You, on the other hand, were a little harder to pin down, but in the end, you more or less embraced your pirate blood and took your place at sea.”

“Pirates...” Alex muses. “You were wise in getting me drunk before you threw all of this at me. I never would have stuck around if you'd pulled that out while I was more or less sober.”

“Drinking loosens the tongue and opens the mind,” James replies, smiling. “Or at least, the right amount of it does. But, and this is the important part, does it make you inclined to believe me?”

“I couldn't tell you yet,” Alex says. “Talk to me in the morning, maybe, and I'll have an answer for you.”

“Oh, good,” James says, again a little loudly. “I was hoping you'd say that. I haven't exactly got what you'd call a place to stay, and it would be unwise to go tearing out of town in my state.”

“Now hold on,” Alex warns. “That wasn't an invitation.”

“Ah, but I've piqued your interest,” James replies. “And how else will you be certain to find me in the morning? It really works out the best for both of us, you see, and all I need is a little, out-of-the-way corner to rest my weary bones in.”

“You're incredible,” Alex groans, rubbing at his temples. “You pickpocket me, change your mind, get me drunk, tell me stories about past pirate lives, and now you want to sleep on my floor.”

“That's the short of it, yes,” James agrees.

Alex sighs and gets up from his chair.

“Come on, then,” he tells him. “I don't think I can handle any more of this right now. If you want to sleep on my floor, you're welcome to it, but no more talk of pirates until after I get some sleep.”

This time, Alex makes it back to his apartment. Granted, he's trailing a decidedly unsteady stranger who has essentially invited himself to stay the night, but at least Alex can finally sleep. It's one-thirty in the morning, and while he could stay up later, Alex has already worked a full day at his welding job; even with the alcohol, his muscles are aching. He opens the door and, after some thought, tucks his keys back into his pocket rather than tossing them on the table by the door like he always does.

“Don't steal anything, and don't bother me until at least nine,” he says tiredly, rubbing his stiff neck. “Bathroom is the first door on the left. We'll talk more in the morning.”

He locks his bedroom door and falls into bed without bothering to so much as step out of his jeans, hoping to hell that he won't wake up to James having stolen everything of value in the apartment. His dreams are full of the gentle rocking of the sea under creaking wooden boards, and whether it's just James' stories or actual memories from a past life, he sees faces that are at once strange and achingly familiar. And when he wakes up at quarter past nine in the morning with a raging hangover, Alex is relatively certain that regardless of how ridiculous it sounds, James is probably telling the truth.

“I must be crazy,” he sighs, throwing an arm over his eyes.

Still, he gets up and changes into fresh clothes, and, listening carefully, he hears the sound of movement somewhere in the apartment. James is still there, or at least, someone is. Alex picks up a pocket knife from his bedside table and opens it, inspecting the rather dull blade but ultimately deciding it will be good enough for self-defense. With a deep breath and the knife in hand, Alex opens the door and heads down the hall to see what James is up to.

“Ah!” James says from the kitchen. “I thought you'd never wake up. Come, come, I've got breakfast.”

It's a little surreal, really. James, looking simultaneously fresh as a daisy and like death warmed over—it's the eyeliner giving the latter impression, Alex realizes; he's smudged it all to hell in his sleep—stands next to the stove, poking at a frying pan full of eggs and another one of bacon. James grins at him and motions to the table, where he's set out two each of plates, glasses, and forks.

“You don't have any milk or orange juice,” James tells him, a little chidingly, “so I went with water. Good enough, right? Hydration is important for curing a hangover, after all.”

“You're crazy,” is all Alex can think to say.

“Perhaps, but breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” James says brightly. “Sit down. It's about ready. Hope you like your eggs scrambled.”

“That's fine, I—why did you raid my kitchen?” Alex asks, suddenly realizing that it's probably not normal for James to have made breakfast in this situation.

“I was hungry,” James says, a little reproachfully.

“Of course you were,” Alex sighs. “Well, I guess you've already made the food, so we might as well eat it. But I get most of the bacon. My apartment, my bacon.”

“Fair enough,” James says, grinning. “Protein is protein anyway.”

He dishes out the food, giving Alex what looks like most of an entire package of bacon, and Alex privately fumes at the waste of good food. Though perhaps he can somehow save what he doesn't eat and reheat it later? Either way, it's not worth snapping at James over, so he digs in, a little surprised at how hungry he is.

“So,” James says conversationally as they eat, “have you decided whether or not you believe me?”

Alex swallows a mouthful of bacon and nods.

“I'm probably crazy,” he says, “but I don't think you're lying. Or at least, you believe you're telling the truth. Doesn't mean that's what's actually going on, but...”

“You had the dreams, too, then?” James asks knowingly.

“I had some kind of pirate dream, yes,” Alex admits. “And I did see people who seemed familiar. But dreams are funny things. They can convince us of all kinds of things.”

“But you believe me,” James presses.

“I believe you think you're telling the truth,” Alex says gently.

“Wonderful,” James says, looking positively giddy. “So we'll leave around noon, I suppose?”

Alex chokes on his eggs.

“What are you talking about?” he asks, gulping down water.

“To find the others,” James explains, as though that was obvious. “I expect you'll need a couple of hours to pack and settle your affairs, but it's important to get on the road as soon as possible if we want to make it to California by Monday.”

“Wait, wait, hold on,” Alex says with a sigh. “I didn't say anything about going anywhere with you. Just because I believe you doesn't mean I'm going to go running off to California.”

James fixes him with a stare that is, quite frankly, a little frightening.

“It's our destiny to be reunited with our companions,” he says quietly. “Ignoring it won't make the strange feelings go away, and it won't make you any less dissatisfied with your life. The only way to be at peace with yourself is to accept your fate and find the others who know how you feel.”

Something about the way the stranger talks draws Alex in like a moth to a flame. He makes it seem so easy, promising that everything will be better if he just uproots himself and follows this likely completely insane man across the country to chase down who knows how many people that he remembers from a past life. And a considerably large part of Alex wants to do just that.

“I'm going crazy,” he says, finishing his food. “I must be, because I'm seriously considering calling my job and telling them I'm never coming in again, and I'm seriously considering calling my landlord and telling him to just get rid of everything in my apartment for me.”

“That's the spirit!” James roars, clapping him on the back. “Now, you'll want two extra pairs of trousers and three or four shirts, and make sure to bring a can opener. Never know when you'll need to open a can. Oh, and you'll want a jacket, in case we hit bad weather.”

Alex laughs in spite of himself.

“You know everything, don't you?” he says.

“I know enough,” James says with a shrug. “Now come on and get to making those calls. I'll find some non-perishables to bring along so we don't have to buy food on the road.”

He gets up and begins to ferret through the cupboards, humming to himself. Alex shakes his head and goes to the bedroom to find his phone. How he got talked into this, he still doesn't know, but it promises to be an adventure, at least. Alex just hopes he doesn't wind up dead in a ditch somewhere.

His landlord is less than enthused about the prospect of getting rid of his things, but Alex promises to leave extra money on the table, and that plus his deposit should take care of the cost of disposing of his things. His stomach lurches a little unpleasantly at the thought of letting go of all but a tiny percentage of his possessions, but the seductive promises of adventure on the road make it easier.

Alex calls work next, and the supervisor doesn't even seem to care that he's quitting. He just tells Alex that his last check will be deposited electronically into his account in a week and hangs up. Suddenly, everything seems very real, and Alex's stomach heaves with anxiety. He has no job and no place to live. He has to follow James now, or he'll be alone on the streets.

“If you get me killed,” he says to James when he walks back into the kitchen with a bag of clothes and his cell phone and charger, “I'm going to haunt your ass and make sure you die a slow, painful death.”

“I can't promise you won't be killed,” James says easily, “but I can promise you'll have the time of your life while it lasts.”

“Good enough, I suppose,” Alex says with a quiet laugh.

“Wonderful,” James—Jack—says. “Now, tell me, do you know where I can find this gorgeous young creature, other than California in general?”

And Jack slides a clipped-out photo from a magazine across the kitchen counter, and Alex's heart stops when he sees the face of the woman he saw standing next to him in his dream. Elizabeth, he thinks, though he doesn't know why. He picks up the photo, studying the face of the woman, who looks about his age and whose body he abruptly remembers the feel of against his.

“No,” he says, a little dazed, and hands the photo back, “but the caption says she's a socialite, so we'll be heading for the rich areas. Maybe Hollywood is a good place to start.”

“Of course,” Jack says, grinning. “I knew there was a reason I looked for you first, Will. Now let's get going, shall we? My bike is parked out behind the bar, assuming it's still there. If not, we'll be getting very well-reacquainted with each other on the ride to California.”

The bike is still there, and Jack hops on, lightly caressing it before he starts it up. Alex—Will—gets on his bike, which they rode the two blocks to the bar even though they could have easily walked, and starts it. Jack grins at him.

“Well,” he says, “Off we go to find your bonnie lass. Think you can keep up?”

“I think I can manage,” Will says. “After you.”

Jack peels out of the parking lot, and Will roars after him, head full of memories and nerves buzzing with excitement.


	3. Elizabeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashley is a bored socialite ostracized for her childhood strangeness. She buys a motorcycle at the insistence of her childhood friend, Christopher, and when she is twenty-two years old, she takes it to a dive bar in a bad part of town. There, she meets two strange but familiar men...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not sure if 4,500 words will be the standard per chapter of this fic or whether i just have too much to say in the last two chapters. either way, i should have the next one up soon. hope y'all enjoy, and don't be afraid to leave comments or kudos. i thrive on even the smallest bits of praise, just as any other writer does, and it helps me to know that people are interested in what i write. at any rate, hope this is as fun for y'all as it is for me.

Ashley doesn't play well with others. It's not so much that she has behavioral problems, but that she has developed a bit of a reputation for being unusual, and in a culture of rigid social standards, she is decidedly out of the ordinary and therefore largely ostracized. Not that she minds too terribly much, but it does get lonely, watching her peers form tight-knit social groups without her.

The ostracizing started when she was in elementary school. Ashley, on her first day of school, told everyone in her class very matter-of-factly that she was a pirate king and a governor's daughter. This was dismissed as a child's game of pretend initially, but as the months and then years wore on, Ashley continued to insist that she was a pirate and that one day, her crew would rescue her from the boredom that was school. It steadily grew less cute and more disturbing to her classmates and teachers alike, and Ashley found herself with fewer and fewer friends as she grew older.

The only one who sticks by her was Christopher, who Ashley realizes early on is completely in love with her. She tries to let him know gently that she doesn't feel the same way, but to her surprise, he doesn't drop her the moment he finally understands that he doesn't have a chance with her. He does say that she might change her mind later, and he'll be waiting for her if she does, but he also says he respects her choice and doesn't want to damage their friendship.

Christopher encourages Ashley to forge her own path, unperturbed by her continuing insistence that she is in fact a pirate. He might think she's a little wrong in the head, but it doesn't drive him away the way it did virtually all of her other peers. And when the two of them graduate high school, Christopher talks her into buying a motorcycle so that the two of them can ride together.

Ashley winds up with a Ducati Monster 821 Dark, as she and her father know very little about motorcycles other than the fact that Ducatis are popular racing bikes. She looks at few Harleys, too, but her father thinks they aren't sophisticated enough and goes with the Ducati, and because he's paying for it, Ashley can't bring herself to complain. Not that she wants to; the bike is gorgeous, and while it might be a little much for a beginner, she falls in love with it immediately after climbing onto it.

But then Christopher starts school again—he's going to be a surgeon, and the college classes he took as a high schooler have him on the fast track to med school—and Ashley finds herself alone, the motorcycle condemned to a life in her family's spacious garage. She doesn't want to start college until she knows what she wants to study, which could take an awfully long time, the way things are going, and she spends most of her days reading and messing about on the internet.

And then, come October of her 22nd year, she has an Idea. Ashley takes the motorcycle out of storage, takes it in for a tune-up and general checkup, and carefully cleans it until it's gleaming. Then, she takes it in for a custom paint job—a skull and crossbones on the fuel tank, with the rest all black. It's not a difficult job, and they tell her so, but she insists it's exactly what she wants, so they oblige her. Thankfully, none of the men in the shop give her a hard time about owning a motorcycle, much less one built for racing, even though she shows up in obviously expensively tailored clothes and with an exquisite manicure. They just do their job and send her on her way, giving her a deal on the paint job because it was easy—and likely because she's a pretty girl.

She takes it out for a spin the night she gets her bike back, and even though she has to go slow on the city streets, it feels like coming home. Ashley stays out for two hours, just aimlessly wandering, and when she gets back, her father is beside himself with worry. Their agreement had been that she would only ride her bike during daylight hours, and only with Christopher. She apologizes but tells her father that she will be taking her bike out by herself every now and then, citing her age and her need for independence. He reluctantly agrees but makes her use the best helmet he can possibly find, as well as a specialty jacket and gloves that will protect her better than plain leather ones should she take a spill.

By late November, Ashley has taken her bike out a total of eighteen times, each without incident. Her father voices his concerns less and less, and Ashley has slowly become convinced that riding her motorcycle will become an integral part of her life. She takes exquisite care of it, and she's an exceptionally careful rider, because the slightest bump to her bike feels like a blow to her very soul. More than anything in her life, she feels now that she has found her calling.

One night, she finds herself in a less-than-savory part of town. She should probably be frightened, she thinks, but for some reason, she feels more or less at ease there. Ashley stops at a bar where there are two other motorcycles parked in the spaces next to the handicapped spots, and she decides to park her bike next to them and go in.

Several heads turn when she walks in, and she attracts more than a few stares as she makes her way to the counter. She orders a diet soda, not being much one for alcohol, and the bartender gives her a slightly uncomfortable smile before he turns to get it for her. Ashley sets her helmet on the bar next to her and puts her gloves inside of it while she waits, glancing around the bar for any signs of trouble.

One of the men who had stared when she walked in is still staring, an expression like awe on his face. It's disquieting, but not altogether unwelcome. He's a little scrubby, definitely not very well-off, but his face and posture are open and honest. The man next to him, who looks decidedly uncouth, looks at his companion's expression and laughs before catching Ashley's eye and raising his mostly-empty glass. Suddenly, her face burns, and she turns back to the bartender, who has her drink ready.

She sits at the bar, unsure of what the etiquette is for this situation, and sips at her soda. More people are staring; this must be a place that doesn't get newcomers very often. That, or she's just that out of place. Probably the latter. The music, some rockabilly stuff she vaguely recognizes, is plainly discernible over the gentle rumble of conversation, and Ashley wonders if this is how it always is or if she's caught them on an off night.

“Might I ask,” says the uncouth man who is decidedly not a gentleman, appearing next to her, “what exactly a gorgeous young thing like yourself is doing in a dive like this?”

“Ignore him,” says the young man who had been staring in awe at her. “He's a scoundrel.”

“Well, then, I most certainly will ignore him,” Ashley says primly. “Your friend should learn not to approach women with lines like that, you know. They're utterly creepy.”

“I was just being friendly,” the first man says, pouting.

“I'm Alex,” the other says, offering his hand. “The scoundrel is James.”

“Charmed,” Ashley says, briefly shaking his hand. “I'm Ashley.”

“You're kind of a celebrity, aren't you?” Alex asks, a little too eagerly.

“So is that why you wanted to talk to me?” Ashley says with a sigh.

“Well, no, not exactly,” Alex says quickly. “I mean I recognized you, but that wasn't the only reason I wanted to talk to you. You really are pretty, and—“

“The boy has no idea how to talk to women,” James interrupts. “What he means is that you looked interesting, see? And that the fact that he knew who you were only added to the intrigue. You have a bit of a reputation for being unusual, you know.”

“Believe me, I know,” Ashley says. “Now why are you talking to me when I specifically said I was going to ignore you?”

“To rescue young Alex from certain embarrassment, of course,” James says smoothly.

“Thanks for that,” Alex says a little bitterly.

“So you wanted to talk to the outcast socialite,” Ashley tells them. “Because I looked interesting. Well, what do you want to talk about?”

“We heard you like motorcycles,” Alex says, brightening.

“I came here on my bike, so yes, I do,” Ashley replies.

“Do you ride often?” James asks.

“When I can,” Ashley says. “I've been taking my bike out more often recently.”

“Good, good,” James says. “They give you a certain kind of freedom, don't they?”

“You could say that,” Ashley says carefully.

James finishes his drink and waves the bartender off. It probably isn't his first one anyway, Ashley surmises, and unless Alex is driving, he won't want to have too much. Alex has what looks like a glass of soda like hers, though, so he might actually be the designated driver tonight. Ashley stirs the ice in her glass and takes a good, hard look at the two of them.

Alex is clearly nervous. He keeps tapping his foot, and his shoulders are a little tense now that he's in close proximity to her. And somehow, he seems familiar, which unnerves and intrigues her. His hand, when she shook it, was full of callouses, which means he works with his hands a good deal. Maybe a factory job, she thinks, or something with carpentry.

James, on the other hand, looks completely relaxed, and while his hands are visibly roughened, she doesn't see him as a factory kind of person. He'd be too bored by it. More likely, he'd do something mechanical, where he had to solve problems, or construction work, where he could expend large amounts of his seemingly boundless energy.

“Giving us a dose of our own medicine, are you?” James asks.

“What?”

“You were staring for quite awhile,” says James.

“Oh. Sorry. I was thinking.” She blushes a little, which makes James grin at her.

“About what?” James asks.

“Nothing important,” she insists.

James gives her a knowing smile and leans in close enough that Ashley can smell the sweat and alcohol on him.

“You seem like a smart girl,” he says. “Would you agree?”

“I got good grades in school, if that's what you mean.”

“That's not quite it,” James says, shaking his head. “I mean more in the area of...knowing things. Trusting your gut to lead you right and it never failing you.”

“I suppose so, then,” Ashley says with a shrug. “Why do you ask?”

“What did you feel in your gut when you were looking at the two of us?” James asks.

Ashley gives him a slightly confused and suspicious look. He's after something, she knows it, but she can't quite get a read on him. Maybe it's the alcohol making him unpredictable. Regardless, though, he wants an answer, and she doesn't feel comfortable denying him one. Somehow, she feels like she owes him an answer, and the right one, at that.

“I thought that Alex looked familiar,” she says finally. “And that you must be too bored by repetition to do factory work.”

“Good girl,” James says, looking satisfied, and straightens up. “So the boy looks familiar, does he? Why do you suppose that might be?”

“I don't know,” Ashley says. “Maybe he did some work for my father once?”

“Love, we just got into town tonight,” James says with a chuckle. “And that boy has never set foot in California before now. So unless you did a little tour of the Midwest, it's unlikely that you'd have ever seen him, much less met him.”

She should be growing uncomfortable right about now, but Ashley can't help but be dangerously interested in where this is going. Something about being around these two feels logical, like it was supposed to happen this way. James seems to pick up on this, because his smile widens, showing gold teeth, and he fixes her with a stare that's just this side of predatory.

“Now, I want you to sit and think about that a little,” he says. “No sense in rushing things. Now, there is another matter to attend to that is a bit more pressing.”

He pauses.

“Being that we just got into town,” James says, “we haven't yet found a suitable place to rest our weary heads. And, being that you have yourself set up in undoubtedly spacious accommodations, it stands to reason that you would have more than ample room for a pair of poor old travelers.”

Ashley snorts.

“You can't be serious,” she says, laughing.

James looks calmly at her.

“You're serious,” she realizes. “You have to be crazy.”

“He probably is crazy,” Alex agrees. “James, we can't ask that of her.”

“Technically, we can ask anything we want of Miss Ashley,” James points out. “Whether it is polite or reasonable depends on the request. But I don't think this is too far-fetched, do you?”

“Of course it is!” Alex exclaims. “She doesn't know us, and we met her in a bar! It's completely far-fetched, and you know it.”

“But will it work?” James asks. “That is the important thing.”

Ashley gives the two of them a long, hard look. Alex, at least, looks like he would be unlikely to steal anything if she gives him access to her home. James, she isn't sure about, but Alex might keep him in line. And there's the matter of Alex looking familiar—and, for that matter, of James looking familiar. She's started to notice it in the way he talks and acts, and while it could be because she's just seen people talk and act similarly, she has a feeling it runs deeper than that. Altogether, she knows she doesn't want to risk them getting away before she figures out what's going on.

“You're crazy,” she tells James, “but I guess I'm crazy, too. My father should be asleep by now, so we could get into the house without him seeing you, probably. If he does see you, though, all bets are off. I'm not going to argue with him if he—rightfully so—objects to strange men in his house.”

“Would it be easier to get in through the window?” James asks, as though this is the most natural question in the world.

“Dad usually doesn't arm the security system, but it's better not to risk it,” Ashley replies, wondering just how she thinks this is a good idea. “His bedroom is on the opposite end of the house from mine, so he probably won't hear you if you're quiet.”

They hash out the specifics of the plan over the next ten minutes or so, and they leave the bar around one in the morning. Ashley's father is used enough to her going out riding that he no longer stays up until she gets back, and he sleeps soundly, so they have a fighting chance of getting Alex and James in the front door without anyone noticing, especially since they don't have any staff that stays overnight. Well, aside from the security guard, but he's known Ashley since she was a child, and he'll be thrilled to see her bringing friends home, no matter how unruly they look.

They set off for Ashley's home, riding together like they were meant for it. Ashley files away this feeling for later consideration and leads them into her neighborhood, which looks for all the world like a gated community but isn't technically one, as there's not actually a gate to pass through. There is one at the end of Ashley's driveway, and she talks the security guard into letting Alex and James stash their bikes in the little shed adjoining the little booth he sits in during his shift. He gives her the key so they can get their bikes later, and Ashley thanks him profusely while trying unsuccessfully to slip him a hundred for his trouble. He just tells her to have fun and sends the trio on their way.

“I like him,” James comments as they start up the driveway with Ashley's bike. 

“He's a good man,” Ashley agrees. “Now be quiet.”

She parks her bike in the garage—James looks around appreciatively at the rather impressive collection of rare cars, but she ushers him out before he can cause any trouble—and heads to the door, where a little panel glows blue in the darkness. It's the security system, armed for the first time in months, but Ashley remembers the password and thanks her lucky stars she didn't try the window instead.

Faint sounds of snoring can be heard from the master bedroom on the second floor. Ashley guides her new friends up the stairs to the third floor, where her bedroom is located at the far corner of the house. She realizes halfway there that coming in through the window would have been a logistical nightmare anyway, given that no trees grow close enough to the window to use as a ladder and given that she doesn't have an emergency ladder to throw down. At any rate, though, they make it to her room, which she realizes belatedly is probably far too ostentatious and large for a normal person. Not that that's a bad thing, really; there's plenty of room for the three of them. But she feels self-conscious all the same.

“I would comment on the bed,” James says, eyeing the king-sized mattress, “but that would be ungentlemanly of me.”

“Yes, it would,” Ashley tells him, sitting primly on the edge of it with her hands in her lap. “Now, some ground rules, the first of which is that you must absolutely not be seen by my father.”

“Aye, we got that one already,” James says.

“Good. The second is that you do not touch me in any way, shape, or form,” Ashley says. “I may not look like much, but Dad did enroll me in several types of martial arts classes all through my childhood. I would be a black belt in all of them, but I went through a rebellious phase and stopped before I could take the tests.”

She's not quite telling the truth; she tried for black belt in karate but couldn't pass, and after her failure, she gave up on all three of her classes. She still practices regularly, but she won't set foot in another formal class because she's afraid of failing again. As a “gifted student,” failure does not rest easy with her, and she avoids anything that could reasonably result in failure like the plague.

“I wouldn't dream of touching you without your permission,” James says, and she thinks he's being honest. “Any others?”

“You only get to stay here at night,” Ashley continues. “As soon as dawn arrives, I unlock the shed, and you ride off until at least midnight. And so on, until you either wear out your welcome or decide to move on.”

“Fair enough,” Alex says before James can respond. “We won't be in your hair any longer than absolutely necessary.”

“Good,” Ashley says. “Now, I'll get some extra bedding from my closet, and you can each have whatever bit of the floor you want, so long as you don't get in my way.”

She finds out very quickly that James doesn't sleep well. Every hour or so, he starts awake and takes to ambling around the room, picking things up and examining them. Ashley nearly has a heart attack the first time he does it, as he stops next to her bed to look at the photos on her nightstand when she opens her eyes and, forgetting that she's allowed anyone in her room at all, almost screams. But she remembers before she can open her mouth, and her terror fades to annoyance.

The second night, she sleeps through to dawn regardless of James' interrupted sleeping schedule. She lets him and Alex in around a quarter past midnight, and they behave themselves, more or less, until she shoos them away at dawn. It's strange, having anyone in her room with her, but she quickly gets used to it and even finds herself enjoying her new friends' presence. It feels less lonely when she can hear someone else's breathing if she wakes up during the night.

The third night, she stays up with James when he wakes up, falling into a pattern of sleeping for an hour, being up for twenty minutes, and sleeping another hour. He doesn't talk to her when he mills about the room, just looks at photographs and relics of her childhood in silence. Alex must be used to this, because he doesn't stir at all until dawn.

“Why do you keep waking up during the night?” Ashley asks on the fourth night.

“That has something to do with why you think the boy is familiar,” James says quietly.

She gives him a quizzical look.

“Nightmares,” he explains. “I remember things, and sometimes, those things aren't so pleasant.”

“What do you remember?”

Against her better judgment, she pats the bed next to her. James sits down, close but not touching her, and looks over at Alex. His expression is weary, sad, vastly different to how he's acted up to now. He looks back at her with that same expression and gives her a small smile.

“Freedom,” he begins, “but at a price. There are things you must endure in order to have freedom, the most common of which is violence. Gunfire, cannon fire, blood on a cold steel blade. Watching friends and foes alike die before your eyes. Aye, I remember much, and it makes sleep near impossible.”

He pauses to look back at Alex, who is still fast asleep.

“He'll be angry that I'm telling you this without him,” James says with a quiet chuckle. “He wanted to do damage control. But it can't be helped, I suppose. Things work out the way they're meant to.”

“Were you in a war?” Ashley asks, unable to think of another reason why he would remember those specific acts of violence.

“Of a sort,” James says with a shrug. “Ancient history, really. But it's why I found that boy, there. To see if it would stop the memories. It's why I convinced him to find you, too, and why I have to find others like us.”

“You've stopped making sense,” Ashley says, moving away from him unconsciously. “What are you talking about? Why you wanted to find me? I thought you just recognized me and wanted to chat me up.”

“Yes, but what the boy failed to tell you was that we came here specifically because we recognized you. Both of us, and not because we follow the latest celebrity gossip.”

James looks at her with a disconcertingly warm and fond expression on his face. Ashley knows then that she has made a mistake and that the men she's invited to stay with her will probably abduct and murder her or worse, but James makes no move to hurt her. He just keeps looking at her, and it would be a little heartbreaking if it wasn't so frightening.

“You were a pirate king, were you not?” he asks, and everything falls into place.

He could have found out about the specifics of her being outcast from her peers, of course. The actual phrase “pirate king” had never made it into publication, but there has to be someone out there who remembers what she told her classmates verbatim. And yet, she has the feeling that James hasn't talked to anyone who knew her as a child.

And abruptly, she sees a vision of the past, of herself in breeches and a flowing shirt, of the smell of the sea and the gentle rocking of waves. And she sees James and Alex, looking much the same but dressed like, well, like pirates. And she feels, deep in her bones, a name that is not her own but is so completely hers that it feels more real than the name her father gave her: Elizabeth.

“Jack?” she says unsteadily.

“Aye,” James—Jack—says. “Am I right in assuming there will be no need for damage control?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth says, voice still a little shaky. “I—this is very strange.”

“But it feels right, does it not?”

“It does,” Elizabeth agrees. “Oh my God. How is this possible?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Jack says. “Now, will you help us find the others?”

“I think I have to, don't I?” says Elizabeth, letting out a slightly hysterical giggle. “My God, we all have motorcycles. That's part of it, isn't it?”

“So it would seem,” Jack says.

Will wakes up, groggy and more than a little annoyed at having been roused from slumber by the conversation, but when he sees the look on Elizabeth's face, he bolts upright.

“You told her,” he says accusingly.

“I helped her along a bit, yes,” Jack says calmly. “And you'll be happy to know that she accepted the truth without much difficulty.”

“And I'm going with you,” Elizabeth adds.

“Brilliant,” Will says with a sigh. “Well, at least it all worked out. Who's next?”

“I think...I know the Commodore,” Elizabeth says haltingly. “A bit boring, stickler for the rules, likes things to be in order?”

“Sounds like him,” Jack says, grinning.

“I think I grew up with him,” Elizabeth says. “His name's Christopher now, and he's a med student. I—I don't know if we can convince him to go with us, though. He's got a whole career ahead of him, and finals are soon, so even if he took a semester off, we couldn't leave until almost Christmas.”

“I can wait,” Will says.

“I've waited thirty-two years,” Jack points out. “I can wait another month.”

“So it's settled,” Elizabeth says. “We'll talk to Christopher tomorrow.”

“Sounds like a plan,” agrees Will. “Can I go back to sleep now?”

“Go ahead,” Elizabeth says with a laugh.

Jack grins and stands up so Elizabeth can get to sleep as well. He retreats to his corner, where he curls up and watches Elizabeth as she settles down again in her bed. She feels his eyes on her even when she rolls to her other side, but it doesn't feel threatening. On the contrary, she decides as she starts to drift off, it feels positively comforting.


	4. Norrington

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christopher is a promising young med student. His life is on track to be fantastic and wealthy, but then his childhood friend, Ashley, calls him up and says she needs to talk to him...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> might take a tiny bit of a break after this. i have some other related fic i want to write, which, if i do write it, will be posted as companion fic to this multi-chapter one. but we'll see how things go. either way, i don't anticipate it taking too terribly long to get the next chapter up. hope y'all enjoy, and don't be afraid to leave comments and/or kudos. much love.

Christopher has always known he is destined for greatness. When he was seven years old, he decided that he would be a surgeon, and as soon as he was old enough to take college classes, he got as many of the general ones out of the way as he could so he could get into med school faster. His determination has gotten him through existential angst and nervous breakdowns and have him on track to be an exceptionally young practicing surgeon.

Because he focuses so intensely on his schooling, Christopher has few friends, the majority of which drop off by the time he graduates high school. The only one who sticks with him is Ashley, who tolerates his hopeless affection for her with a grace that amazes him. Even after she tells him she doesn't feel the same, he holds out some hope that she will one day see that they are meant to be together, but if it never happens, he wouldn't mind, just so long as he doesn't lose her friendship.

He buys a motorcycle, a Vincent Black Shadow, when he graduates high school out of a desire to have at least one adolescent experience before he becomes locked in his career path. Christopher convinces Ashley to buy one as well so that they can ride together during the summer, and he has to admit, he enjoys riding almost as much as he enjoys being in Ashley's company. It makes him feel free, like he doesn't have to be tethered by responsibility and obligation.

Of course, the motorcycle goes in the garage at summer's end, and he doesn't touch it again for four years. School is too important, and he takes classes year-round to stay on track. There is no time for adolescent fantasy when he has a career to think of. Gradually, he loses touch with Ashley, though they still make an effort to talk at least weekly online, and he begins to feel truly isolated.

So he throws himself into his work that much more, making straight As and all but destroying his body and mind in the pursuit of the perfect life path. He loses much too much weight, reduced to skin and bones by his second year of college, and he develops an unhealthy caffeine addiction that has his hands shaking so badly he can barely take notes some days. In addition, he becomes morbidly depressed, shutting himself off from his peers and retreating to the room he rents in a house with five other med students whenever he doesn't have class. He starts to wonder if this is even worth the torture he is putting himself through, and thoughts of how useful he will be and how much he will help people become the only thing keeping him going.

He is twenty-two when Ashley calls him one Saturday night. Christopher should be studying, but he takes the call anyway, because he hasn't heard Ashley's voice in months and because he's rapidly approaching another nervous breakdown. He swipes the screen on his cell phone to answer the call, hoping that she'll want to talk for more than a few seconds or, barring that, maybe meet up sometime.

“It's been awhile,” she says by way of greeting. “I was afraid you'd died.”

“I've had a lot to do,” he answers, then adds “It's wonderful to hear from you.”

They chat for a good ten minutes, catching up on what's been going on in each others' lives—mostly schoolwork and stress for Christopher, but he tries to add some good things, too, like the time he treated himself to a slice of cake after a particularly exhausting study session—before Ashley finally tells him why she called him.

“Listen,” she says, “I've got kind of a weird situation here, and I think I need your help.”

“What do you need?” he asks immediately.

“It's complicated,” Ashley says, “and seriously, don't lecture me about this, but I met these guys...”

“What did they do?” Christopher can't help the edge in his voice.

“Nothing, nothing,” Ashley says quickly. “In fact, we're all getting along really well. Well, the three of us, I mean. It's not like it was a whole gang of guys I met.”

“So what did you want me to do?” he asks, resisting the temptation to chew on his thumbnail.

“I think we should talk. All of us. Can you meet me somewhere in the next twenty-four hours?”

“Of course,” he says, but he knows he can't afford to take time out of studying to go talk to strange men for God knows how long.

“When would you want to do it? I'm open more or less whenever.”

He looks at the clock. Eight-forty-five. It's not that late, really.

“Is now too soon?” he asks.

“No, that's, that's good, actually,” Ashley says, and she's audibly relieved. “Can you make it to Linda's in half an hour?”

“The nightclub? Sure. What's the cover there, again?”

“Five for guys. There's no cover for girls. See you then? I'll be waiting by the door for you.”

“Sounds good,” Christopher says, and says his goodbyes.

He immediately changes into clean clothes, because he's been wearing the same ones for two days. Deodorant and a mild cologne—he's very sensitive to certain scents and is picky about his fragrances—make him presentable enough, along with a swipe through his hair with a comb, and he's ready to leave. He takes a cab, because he doesn't have a car at school, as the campus is close enough to walk to, and he thanks his past self for going to the bank and getting some cash.

Ashley is waiting for him as promised, just inside the door. She looks amazing in a conservative red blouse and jeans, and her numerous piercings, her one adolescent indulgence outside of the motorcycle, gleam in the low light. She smiles at him and takes his arm to lead him through the mildly-crowded club and into the collection of small tables at the back of the establishment. Christopher starts to ask her what exactly it is she wants to talk about when he spots a pair of men in the corner, one of whom grins and waves at them.

The one who waved looks like he should be thrown out of the club. It's not an exclusive club by any means, but it is a respectable establishment, and he looks anything but respectable. Dirty, threadbare clothes, worn-out combat boots, and long, clearly unwashed hair make for a decidedly unkempt and unsavory appearance. Not to mention the swagger visible from even fifteen feet away, which sets Christopher on edge. Why Ashley would be hanging around someone like this is beyond him.

The other man makes a little more sense. He's attractive, or at least, Christopher assumes he's attractive, because he has many of the features Ashley has exclaimed over in other men. His expression is very open and honest, tinged with embarrassment at present, and he somehow looks much more put-together than his companion, though his clothes are no less threadbare and his boots no less scuffed. Christopher immediately trusts him more than the first man, though he isn't completely sure either of them are trustworthy at all.

“This is Alex,” Ashley says when they approach, gesturing to the less-objectionable man, “and this is James. We met last week and really hit it off.”

“Pleased to meet you,” James says, offering a hand resplendent with rings.

Christopher nods but doesn't take the proffered hand. James shrugs and downs his drink, which appears to be straight liquor on ice. He flags down a waitress and orders a double shot of rum, which is probably what the last drink was, and Christopher's uneasiness increases. If this man is getting himself drunk in Ashley's presence, who knows what he could do to her? Alex looks like he could take James in a fight if he had to, but there's no guarantee he would want to stop him if he tried anything unpleasant. Christopher's mind spins with all manner of horrible thoughts, and he almost doesn't hear Ashley when she asks him to sit down with the three of them.

He obeys, and he waves off the waitress who brings James his drink and asks Christopher if he wants anything. James smiles at him, showing gold teeth, and raises his glass. Christopher tries to ignore him, but it's difficult, what with the oddly magnetic quality he has to him. Alex notices his discomfort and nudges James, who rolls his eyes and stops staring at Christopher. It's remarkably easier to ignore James when he's not looking at him, so Christopher is thankful for Alex's desire to make him comfortable. Not that he trusts Alex, but it helps.

“So what did you want to talk about?” Christopher asks, glancing over at Ashley, who is altogether too close to Alex for Christopher's liking.

“Well, that's the thing,” Ashley says, tapping her glass, which is undoubtedly filled with diet soda. “I don't exactly know how to go about talking about what it was I wanted to talk about.”

“That's a very complicated way of saying you're not sure how to word it,” Christopher says with a small smile. “Perhaps you could try talking about a small portion of it first?”

“Okay,” she says, smiling. “Well, you know how we got those bikes when we were teenagers?”

“Right...”

“Well, I've started riding mine again. I actually met these two losers when I was out on a ride.” She looks fondly at the two men and smiles. “They have bikes, too. We took a cab here, though, because James wanted to drink, and neither of us wanted to cart his sorry ass home at the end of the night.”

James raises his glass again to make an invisible toast and downs the rest of his liquor.

“Anyway, I've really enjoyed riding my motorcycle,” says Ashley. “It's really...freeing, I guess is the best way to describe it.”

James gets the waitress to bring him another double shot of rum, and on a whim, Christopher orders a screwdriver. He hasn't had alcohol in a long time, probably not since his last family dinner on Labor Day, and he hasn't had a mixed drink since his first formal year of college. Given that the nature of this conversation will probably turn distressing, if Ashley's nervousness is anything to go by, he will probably need the alcohol by the time the night is through.

“So you've been riding your motorcycle alone,” he says when he gets his drink and takes a sip of it. “How does your father feel about that?”

“He started out terrified,” says Ashley with a low laugh, “but he's better about it now. Doesn't even wait up for me anymore when I go out riding, which is a good thing.”

She looks like she wants to say something else, but she stops herself. Christopher wonders what exactly she was stopping herself from saying, but he decides that she'll probably tell him when she's ready, and if she's never ready, that means he doesn't need to know. He takes another sip of his drink, feeling the citrus and the vodka burn his throat a little.

“So I met Alex and James,” she reiterates, “and we bonded right away. It was like we'd known each other forever, you know?”

Her stare, previously just nervous, now has an edge to it that he can't place. It's something like fear, but he can't for the life of him figure out what she has to be scared of. Unless...he realizes with a start that she's afraid he'll abandon her. She has the same look in her eye now that she had one day when they were children that is burned into his memory, the day when she asked him whether he was going to ignore her like all the other children in their class did. For whatever reason, she's convinced that what she has said or will say will make him decide not to associate with her anymore.

“Sometimes,” he says carefully, “we can bond with other people in a very short amount of time. It's not unusual when a person finds others that they share interests with.”

“Right,” Ashley says, a little too eagerly. “And that's what happened here. Instant connection.”

“Well, not instant,” James protests a bit loudly. “You weren't quite sure about me at first, were you?”

“No, but then again, you did try a lousy pickup line on me,” Ashley says with a smile. “Anyway, I've been talking to these two a great deal since I met them, and I have an idea.”

“What kind of idea?” Christopher asks, growing uneasy again.

“I—well, let's talk about that later,” Ashley decides abruptly. “For now, let's all talk a little so my new friends can get to know you better.”

He obliges her, telling the strangers about how med school is going and telling stories about his childhood with Ashley. They laugh and smile at appropriate times, seeming genuinely interested in what he has to say, and maybe it's the admittedly small amount of alcohol he's had, but he feels a little less uncomfortable around the two of them, even James.

Even though James is far too familiar with Ashley. At least he isn't sitting directly next to her, but he keeps shooting her these conspiratorial looks and smiling a little too widely at her. He throws his arm around Alex and laughs, and Christopher flinches at the thought of him throwing his arm around Ashley. Granted, Ashley is her own person and can make her own decisions, so if she wanted him to do those things, she's welcome to let him, but Christopher can't help feeling like she could get into real trouble with these two.

“How are you feeling, Christopher?” Ashley asks after a time. “Are you feeling any more comfortable with these two losers?”

“I suppose so,” Christopher says. “I wouldn't say I'm entirely comfortable with them, but I'm not completely opposed to them, either.”

“Okay,” says Ashley, clearly relieved, “because that idea I had? Well, uhm.”

She glances at Alex and James and looks back at Christopher.

“I was thinking of taking some time off from life, maybe six months or something, and traveling.”

“Well,” Christopher says, “you're young, and young people like to travel.”

“Yes, but it's a little different, what I'm talking about,” she says nervously. 

“How so?”

“Well, I was thinking I would take my motorcycle,” says Ashley.

“It would be dangerous for you to go alone on a motorcycle,” Christopher tells her immediately.

“I wouldn't be going alone,” she says quietly.

And suddenly, it dawns on him, and he goes visibly pale. James, on his sixth or seventh double shot of rum, snorts and finishes his drink. Alex looks vaguely hopeful while simultaneously looking worried, and Ashley, well, she just looks apprehensive.

“You can't be serious,” he says when he regains the ability to speak.

“I swear I'd be careful,” Ashley promises, “and if anything went even the slightest bit wrong, I'd call for help immediately. But I really feel like I have to do this, Christopher.”

Christopher closes his eyes and considers. She doesn't sound like she can be convinced to give up on this idea, and trying to do so would likely be a waste of time. So he takes a deep breath and tries to find a solution that will not result in Ashley lying face down in a ditch in rural Alabama.

“Give me until after the semester is over,” he says finally. “Don't leave before then. I need to think, and I want to be able to talk to you again before you go.”

She nods.

“Of course. I'll need the time to get Dad used to the idea, anyway.”

She smiles at him, and it's the most beautiful thing he's seen in a long time.

“You're a good guy, Christopher,” she says. “Don't worry too much, okay? You have enough to stress about without me adding to it.”

“You know I'll always worry,” he says with a small smile. “But I'll do my best not to let it get the better of me. Now, promise me that you won't leave before my semester ends.”

“I promise,” she says immediately. “Thank you so much for not overreacting.”

“Of course,” he says and stands. “Are you okay to get home your—“

And then he remembers something that Ashley had said earlier.

“You shared a cab,” he says dully, staring at Ashley. “And you said 'home' as though it was the same place for the three of you.”

“Yes, well, that was another thing,” Ashley says nervously.

Christopher downs the rest of his drink and leaves the club.

It takes him two weeks to convince the school to let him take a leave of absence. He explains to them that he needs to take time off to find himself and make sure that being a surgeon is the right path for him, and they eventually agree to hold his place in the program for a year. One day over the start of that next registration date, though, and they would consider him dropped out. He thanks them and makes sure to have his father make a sizable donation to the school as a show of his gratitude.

The next part is harder. He has to convince his parents that leaving with Ashley is a good idea. They initially balk at him, saying that Ashley is an adult who can make her own mistakes, but he insists that it would be good for him to see more of the country in addition to looking out for Ashley on the road. They relent just before the end of the semester.

When he completes his last final and calculates his grades at a comfortable 96% in each class, he goes to Ashley. The security guard is surprised to see him but glad that he's taking time out of his busy schedule to see Ashley, and he lets him through without a fuss. He walks his motorcycle up the driveway—he's been riding more in order to get used to the feeling of it again—and nervously knocks on the front door after parking it by the large fountain in front of the house.

A maid answers and ushers him in; Ashley is in her room and, while she isn't expecting him, she will certainly be glad to see him. At least, that's what the maid assures him of. He thanks her and heads up to the third floor, memories of their childhood flitting through his mind as he climbs the stairs and strides down the hall to Ashley's door.

He hears voices when he approaches, and he opens the door to find Ashley sitting on her bed with Alex and James, the three of them poring over a map of California. He clears his throat, and the three of them look up, expressions the very picture of deer in the headlights. Ashley snaps out of it first, getting up to greet him properly, and she smiles uneasily.

“We were discussing our itinerary,” she explains. “We'll be staying around California for a week or two, I think, and then heading down to New Orleans.”

“I'm going with you,” Christopher says, and he spots James grinning from the bed.

“You—but what about med school?”

“They agreed to hold my place for a year,” Christopher explains. “I have some time to keep an eye on you. I just—I just couldn't let you go alone.”

“You're sweet,” Ashley says, “but I don't want you to jeopardize your career for me.”

“Don't worry about that,” says Christopher. “I'd rather make sure you're safe.”

“This is all very touching,” James interrupts, “but if he's coming with us, he should probably know the other tasty little tidbit about this particular road trip.”

Ashley gives him that nervous look again.

“Well,” she starts, “James has this idea...he thinks we used to know each other.”

“As children? Because I'm pretty sure he's too old to have been around us as children.”

“Not exactly,” Ashley says with a sigh. “It's complicated, but he thinks we knew each other in a more...spiritual kind of way. If that makes sense.”

“So you're joining a cult, is that it?” Christopher is, quite frankly, alarmed. “Because you know I can't allow you to—“

“No, nothing like that,” she says quickly. “I just mean that he thinks our souls knew each other. And, well, I knew I knew the two of them from somewhere when I saw them, and they knew me, and it just feels right, you know?”

“No, I don't know,” Christopher says. “Ashley, I'm going to have to object—“

“I'm going, James Norrington, and nothing you can say will stop me” she snaps, and something clicks into place.

“You're crazy,” he says, denying the part of him that recognizes the name. “But I have to keep you safe. Whatever you think, I'm going to stay by your side.”

“How sentimental,” James drawls from the bed. “Well, now that we've got that over with, can we get back to planning? We have a lot of towns to hit in a short amount of time.”

Ashley glances over at the bed and looks back at Christopher.

“I'm sorry,” she says. “I know you don't understand, but if you think about it, it'll make perfect sense, I swear. Just please don't tell my father. He's beside himself already with the knowledge that his baby girl is going off on her motorcycle to tour the country.”

“Okay,” he says. “Just promise me you won't leave without me.”

“I promise,” says Ashley.

She stands on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek.

“You're my best friend, you know that?” she says gently. “You always have been. And I'm so grateful to have you by my side.”

And he can't say no to that, not when she's looking at him so fondly. So he nods, and he sits down on the bed with the others, and he watches them plan out their route without quite knowing what they're up to. He assumes, though, that it has something to do with souls knowing each other, and he's not sure if he's exasperated or frightened or intrigued by where this will all lead them.


	5. Barbossa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregory lives a quiet life in California with his dog, Cinnamon, until four strangers show up at his door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. I had a lot of fun with this chapter, but it took me awhile because I had other things I was doing. Not sure when the sixth and likely final chapter will be up, but it shouldn't take too long. Hope you enjoy, and don't be afraid to leave comments and/or kudos.

Gregory likes the quiet life. Oh, he was a right hellion in his heyday, but these days, he would much rather just find the best birdseed to attract birds to the feeders he hangs from his balcony and read the newspaper while his Pomeranian, Cinnamon, pesters him for attention. Being left to his own devices, far from the chaos and danger of life on the road, is all he can ask for.

When he was a young man, Gregory bought himself a Yamaha FJ1200, mind full of dreams about freedom and adventure. He loved that bike more than life itself, taking perfect care of it and keeping it as spotless as he could, given that he rode it everywhere. And, leaving home at the tender age of nineteen, he had adventures, too: running from the law, feeling the roar of his bike under him, meeting new people, living day to day on barely enough for gas and rarely enough for food.

Gregory loves life on the road, but by the time he hits thirty, he realizes that he has to find some kind of stability or risk dying in a ditch somewhere. He's dangerously thin, sickly as all get out, and the magic that the road has held for eleven years is slowly fading. It's time to move on, and Gregory finds an apartment in California where he settles down with his current dog, Cinnamon's mother. Several generations of Cinnamon's ancestors have ridden with him in a pouch rigged up to the handlebars, and Cinnamon will be the first generation in awhile not to have grown up with the rumble of a motorcycle under her paws.

It takes awhile to settle down and kill the wanderlust, but eventually, he finds a different rhythm to life on the road, and he eases into it over the course of several years. He finds work, a desk job where his tattoos and weather-beaten face don't matter, and he manages to support himself and his dogs well enough that he doesn't have to fear eviction, but not so well that he doesn't have to visit the local food shelf once a month to stock up on canned goods. It's not a bad life, though, and Gregory finds a different kind of pleasure in the quiet and solitude it offers him.

Cinnamon's mother dies of cancer that Gregory can't hope to have the money to treat when Cinnamon is two years old, and she mourns for months. He thinks about getting another dog to keep her company, but she's never done well with dogs she isn't related to, so he gives up on the idea almost immediately. Previous generations of Cinnamon's family are buried all over the country, but he can't find a suitable and cheap place to bury Cinnamon's mother, so he has Cinnamon's mother cremated and keeps her ashes with her collar—right next to the collars of her ancestors—on the living room end table.

Because Cinnamon never gets out of the house off her leash, she never gets pregnant. Gregory deals with her going into heat because he can't afford to have her fixed, but he's convinced that this will be the last generation of Cinnamon's family. The thought saddens him; he's been with her family for over twenty years, and the dogs, which he still thinks of as Pomeranians even though they've mixed with so many other breeds by the time Cinnamon comes along that they can't be formally called anything but mutts, have been a great source of comfort for him.

Still, life goes on, and when Gregory is forty-two, Cinnamon is ten, and life is pretty good. He has a little more money now, enough that he can buy Cinnamon good dog food instead of relying on the food shelf to supplement her diet with cheap stuff. His clothes are all worn and faded, but that never bothered him anyway; function has always mattered more to him than style. He's not exactly happy—the lure of the road has never completely left him—but he's comfortable, and that's good enough for him.

Gregory's bike has stood in his apartment building's garage since he moved in nine years prior. He pays for the parking spot but only touches the bike once a year to clean it and make sure it still runs. To say that he misses riding would be an understatement, but Gregory knows that he has to grow up and be a productive member of society, so while he can't bring himself to get rid of the motorcycle, he never takes it out of the garage.

He's reading the newspaper as usual one Sunday morning just after New Years when the buzzer rings. Gregory has never had visitors to his apartment and rarely gets deliveries, so he doesn't even know what the sound is until it rings a second time. At that point, he answers it, and there's a woman's voice coming over the speaker.

“I'm terribly sorry,” she says, “for bothering you. This isn't going to be easy to explain, but my friends and I need to talk to you. It's important. Or at least, it will be important once you understand why we came all this way to find you.”

“I don't need you to save my soul,” Gregory tells her. “Jesus and me have an understanding: he don't bother me, and I don't bother anybody else.”

“That's not what we're after, sir,” the woman says. “I'm...I'm Elizabeth, and, well, it's just that we know you've been feeling strange about, well, life in general. That something's been a little off.”

“Are you sure you don't want to save my soul?” Gregory asks.

“I'm sure,” Elizabeth says. “But I think you might come out of this a little happier if you let us talk to you. Please, either let us in or come down here so we can talk.”

Gregory considers. He doesn't know how many of them there are, but he has a gun in the apartment, along with plenty of ammunition with which to load it and defend himself should things turn ugly. Getting it had taken some sweet-talking, but it's legal, so if the police find it on him, they can't arrest him for it. He eyes up the locked drawer in his desk where he keeps it and chews on his fingernails while he decides what to do.

“I'll buzz you in,” he says finally. “But the second you try anything funny, I'll slaughter the lot of you.”

He pauses.

“How many of you are there, anyway?” he asks.

“Four of us,” Elizabeth says. “Myself, Will, Jack, and Mr. Norrington.”

“Alright, come on up,” he says with a sigh and buzzes them in.

While they take the stairs or elevator up to the fourth floor, Gregory unlocks the drawer and loads his gun. It's a Smith and Wesson Model 41, light and typically used for target practice, but it's plenty deadly, and Gregory is an excellent shot. He always has been, enough that his first instructor was convinced he'd practiced before. He doesn't have time to dwell on that now, though, because there are footsteps out in the hall, and he takes his gun and opens the door.

“Whoa, whoa, that is not cool!” one of the three men with Elizabeth says when he sees the gun.

The man looks unkempt and generally like someone who has spent a lot of time on the road. He steps back, hands up, and pulls Elizabeth back with him. The other two men, one a little worse for wear and one who looks much more comfortable in his worn-out clothes, take a step forward and close ranks so that Elizabeth is hidden behind them. Gregory would laugh, but he's still not sure whether these strangers are going to pull anything dangerous.

“You don't have to go waving that thing around,” the last man says, clearly trying to be calming. “We're not here to hurt you. We just want to talk, I promise.”

The man has an honest look about him, and Gregory can't help but trust him a little. He puts the safety on and lowers the gun, but he doesn't put it down yet. This man might be trustworthy, but that doesn't mean his friends are. Gregory steps aside and ushers them into the apartment, and after a pause to glance at each other, the four strangers slowly step across the threshold.

“I know you,” he says to Elizabeth as she enters the apartment. “Your name's Ashley, though.”

“Why does everyone recognize me?” Elizabeth—Ashley—grumbles, rubbing at her temples. “Yes, well, that's part of what we want to talk to you about.”

“I'm Jack,” the man who looks at home on the road says, offering his beringed hand. “I admit, I didn't expect the tattoos.”

Gregory glances down at his arms, which are covered in tattoos that creep up under the sleeves of his T-shirt and continue down his chest and back. Most are nautical-themed, but he also has a collection of paw prints going down the left side of his ribs, one for each dog he's had. He takes the proffered hand, shakes it once, and drops it.

“James Norrington,” the uncomfortable-looking man says, but he doesn't offer his hand.

“Will Turner,” says the last man, who also doesn't offer his hand.

“Gregory,” says Gregory. “So, now that we're all introduced, do you mind telling me why you're here?”

“Well, um,” Elizabeth says, “do you recognize any of us?”

“None of you are my children,” Gregory says sternly, “so don't even try that one.”

“No, not like that,” Elizabeth says with a sigh. “I mean do any of us look familiar, like you've met us before? Or are our names familiar at all?”

“Not in the slightest,” Gregory says, though that's not entirely true.

Looking at Jack, he has the strangest feeling that he knows him from somewhere. Perhaps they were on the road together, but he doesn't look quite old enough for that. Something is familiar, though, no matter how hard he tries to deny it. All of those names spark something very dimly in the recesses of his mind, like a memory he's repressed so well he doesn't know he's missing it, and it scares him.

Cinnamon, who has been napping in the patch of sunlight by the window, wakes up and ambles over to investigate the newcomers. She's usually a little nervous around strangers, but she just sniffs each of the four in turn and rolls over so that Elizabeth can rub her belly. Cinnamon's approval of the strangers makes him feel a little better, but he still doesn't put the gun down. He pulls the three chairs away from the kitchen table and sets them up in the living room facing the two armchairs he has and gestures for the four of them to sit down. He, of course, takes his usual armchair, and he lays the gun across his lap.

“You're here to talk to me about something,” Gregory says, “so talk.”

“It's a bit complicated,” Jack says, smiling. “You probably won't believe us at first.”

“But please, just give us a chance,” Will says. “It makes sense when you think about it a little.”

“Yes, yes, get on with it,” Gregory sighs.

“So about us not being familiar in the slightest,” Jack says, perched on the edge of one of the kitchen chairs. “See, we may not be familiar to you, but you, sir, are quite familiar to the lot of us.”

“That so?” Gregory asks, tapping the barrel of his gun. “And how might that be?”

“Glad you asked,” Jack says brightly. “See, the four of us were what you might call comrades some time back. A crew, even. Not all of a crew, but you get what I mean.”

“Right,” Gregory says. “And this concerns me...how, exactly?”

Elizabeth, looking uneasy but impatient, interrupts when Jack starts to talk again.

“The reason we're here is because we all knew each other in a past life,” she says.

Gregory looks at her for a good long while with an unreadable expression. And then, just when she starts to fidget under his gaze, he starts laughing. Uproariously. Elizabeth titters along with him, but then he doesn't stop laughing, and she quickly trails off and looks uncomfortable. The men she's with look uneasy, exasperated, and amused, respectively, and Jack's smile widens gradually as it becomes apparent that Gregory doesn't believe them in the slightest.

“You in some kind of cult, girl?” Gregory asks Elizabeth.

“I assure you,” Jack says, “we have no part in that kind of thing. We simply wish to reunite our motley little crew of miscreants and go about adventuring the way we did in the old days.”

“Nobody said anything about adventuring,” Norrington says warningly. “I agreed to help you find two people and protect Ashley. There was no talk of adventuring as part of this agreement.”

“Ignore him,” Jack says. “He's a bit of a wet blanket, as it were.”

Gregory sits back, giving each member of the group a long, hard stare. Elizabeth tries not to flinch but fails, and Norrington just looks bored. Will looks slightly embarrassed by the whole thing, but Jack is as unflappable as ever. He's clearly the mastermind behind this little operation, and Gregory isn't sure whether he's batshit insane or an incredibly good con artist. Possibly both.

“You're crazy,” he tells Jack, then turns to the others. “Possibly dangerously so. I'd caution you three against going along with anything this man says, honestly.”

“I thought so, too,” Will says, “but something about it just felt right. Doesn't it feel the same to you?”

“Not at all,” Gregory says, tapping the barrel of his gun again.

Which, of course, isn't true. He has this nagging feeling in the back of his head that he recognizes these strangers, though they sound a little different in the minute flashes he has of them, and they certainly look different. Well, except for Jack, who looks like he raided a theater company's stash of pirate costumes and neglected to find trousers to replace his threadbare jeans. He definitely looks crazy, but maybe that's part of the plan. If there is a plan beyond what they said.

“Why should I believe you?” Gregory asks.

“Because you know something's missing,” Elizabeth tells him. “Captain Hector Barbossa, you know something is missing, and you know you know it has to do with us.”

The name sends a jolt through him. Something falls into place, and while he tries to deny it, he can't bury the thought that she's right.

“What are you asking of me?” he asks, speaking to Elizabeth rather than Jack.

“I don't know,” she replies honestly. “I just know that we're meant to find one another again, and we're meant to travel together, at least for a little while.”

“So, what? You want me to leave my job and my apartment and just go traveling with the lot of you?” Gregory snorts. “You're asking too much, you must know that.”

“Christopher—Norringon—took a year off of medical school to do this,” says Elizabeth. “And Will left his welding job. I promise it will be worth it.”

“Your promises mean nothing,” Gregory points out. “I don't know you, and I can't trust you.”

Cinnamon jumps into Elizabeth's lap, nosing at her hand until she pets her. Elizabeth looks down at the dog for a moment and back up at Gregory with renewed determination.

“You had a monkey,” she says. “His name was Jack. That's why you got a dog as small as Cinnamon. She reminds you of him. It's your unconscious way of replicating that part of your past life.”

Fleetingly, he remembers a small creature sitting on his shoulder, but it's gone as soon as he acknowledges it. He shakes his head.

“You're just filling my head with nonsense to get me to go with you,” he says.

“You remember a ship,” Elizabeth presses. “A ship with black sails. You might even have a tattoo of it somewhere. You remember it, and you remember the feel of the sea rocking the wood beneath your feet. You know you do. You remember it as sure as you remember your own name.”

Gregory catches a fleeting glimpse of a ship behind his eyelids, feels the wheel under his hands and the rolling of the waves. The Black Pearl, just as he's named his motorcycle.

“Say I was to believe you,” he says carefully. “What good would it do? I'm old. Traveling this way and that and getting into trouble, that's all behind me. These old bones couldn't take that kind of abuse again.”

Elizabeth runs a hand through her hair, the ends of which have been dyed blue. She looks unsure of herself, and Gregory can't tell if it's because the con is coming undone or if it's just because she's afraid he won't believe her. Possibly both, probably both. Gregory taps the barrel of his gun.

“You were a pirate long past this age before,” Elizabeth says after a short, awkward silence. “If you could do it in the 18th century, you can do it now.”

Oddly, Gregory finds himself believing her. Maybe she's part of the con, but it doesn't feel like she is. What it feels like, he decides, is coming home.

“I must be as crazy as you lot are,” he says with a sigh, setting the gun on the table next to the armchair.

“So you believe us?” Elizabeth asks hopefully.

“I can't say one way or the other quite yet,” Gregory replies, “but I'm leaning toward yes.”

Elizabeth grins.

“You'll feel so much better traveling with us, I promise,” she says.

“I didn't say anything about traveling,” Gregory tells her. “I just said I might believe you. I'm not about to give up a steady job to go traipsing around with some kids who want to play pirate.”

“Give it a few days,” Jack says sagely. “You'll change your mind. Will, give the nice man your number so that he may contact us when he realizes the error of his ways.”

Will dutifully digs out a scrap of paper and a pen and writes down his number, which Gregory takes with a sigh. He's pretty sure he won't change his mind, but if it'll make the kids happy, and more importantly, if it'll make them leave sooner, he'll take the damn number. And, as if on cue, the four get up and excuse themselves, apologizing for intruding on his space and for taking up his time. Cinnamon rolls out of Elizabeth's lap, annoyed at having her sitting-place taken from her, but she settles on the couch as soon as the strangers are gone as though nothing had happened.

Gregory thinks about the encounter later that night while he makes dinner. It's just a TV dinner, barely worth being called food, but it's calories, at least. Cinnamon eats with him, though her dinner is reasonably expensive dog food, and the metal tags on her collar jingle against the metal bowl as she eats. Gregory thinks back to when he had a dented dog bowl in his bag along with a bag of the cheapest dog food he could find, back when he was on the road and could hardly afford to eat dinner himself half the time. And he thinks about how overwhelmingly familiar and right those days had felt.

He calls Will the next morning.

“Give me until the end of the month to put my affairs in order,” he says when Will picks up the phone. “You lot will be the death of me, I know it, but damned if it doesn't feel good to drop everything and take to the road again.”

Elizabeth and Jack cheer in the background, and he hears a muffled “Oh Christ, no,” that must be from Norrington. Will tells him they'll be back at the end of the month, and Gregory thanks him and hangs up. His hands are trembling, and he still doesn't know if he's doing the right thing. But then he looks at Cinnamon, who still looks like the first Pomeranian he ever had despite her mutt heritage, and he realizes that his place is on the road, with or without these strangers who claim to know him.

Three weeks later, Gregory puts on his old leather jacket, which somehow still fits him, and settles Cinnamon into the harness in the pouch he's made for her between the handlebars. Elizabeth puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and he smiles at her. He's still not completely sure that he's making the right decision, but regardless, this is going to be interesting.


End file.
